


do you want to be with somebody like me?

by cathedralhearts



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M, sort of pre-slash but not really?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 02:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralhearts/pseuds/cathedralhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://grim-lupine.tumblr.com/post/44312306882">Mike Richards chirps something at Taylor Hall</a> during their game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do you want to be with somebody like me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vlieger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/gifts).



> Title taken from Marina & the Diamonds' "Lonely Hearts Club". This is for Kla, in an effort to thank her for all the amazing, beautiful things she's done for me ... and possibly in an effort to get her to turn her notfic for these guys into actual fic. 
> 
> I hold absolutely no hate in my heart toward Mike Richards or the LA Kings franchise, and I don't know what Richie chirped at him but it must've been something ... interesting, to say the least, to get a _bitch what did you just say?_ reaction from Taylor. Then again, if his Twitter is anything to go by, it doesn't take much to piss him off.

They’re playing the Kings, and the mood of the game is turning sour fast. Taylor’s used to being more tired — exhausted, really — at this point, but the shortened season means they’re only just starting to get into it, and the A that’s on his chest every other game, well. It tends to _light a fucking fire_ , as Coach likes to say. 

 

He’s heading to his place on the ice, when Richards appears out the corner of his eye. 

Taylor doesn’t really know much about the guy; bar his super fucking weird story with Carter and whatever he’s seen in games and online, and overheard from teammates who’ve played with him. He’s small but he’s a fighter, works hard for his A, got fucked by the Flyers after years of dedication and _hates_ the press. 

In his weaker moments of self-doubt, Taylor wonders if that’s — if he and Ebs ... if it could happen like that for them, like Richards and Carter, if the Oilers decide they’re not worth the trouble one day. He never really comes to a conclusion and it’s pointless, really, but he can’t help but think about every player's worst nightmare. 

 

So, he’s bent in double, leaning on his stick across his thighs, moving slowly when Richards skates in front of him and opens his mouth. Taylor looks up, a smile playing on his face because Richards is kind of a fucking legend regardless; he can remember watching him play whenever he’d catch Philly games, his mom bitching at him to do his homework.

“We’re gonna fuckin’ take Eberle, then we’ll see how fuckin’ good you are,” Richards snarls between breaths. Taylor just stares at him, dumbfounded. Why would he even _say_ that? Nobody ever chirps him about Ebs; it's always about his teeth, or not deserving the number one draft pick, or shitty play.

It throws him off a lot, and he finishes his shift and heads back to the bench, avoiding Ebs and Nuge’s questioning taps with their sticks, and keeps his head down for the rest of the game. 

 

It’s a shitshow, and they lose 3-1 even with a goal from Taylor that ties up the game, but doesn’t inspire anything else from his boys in orange and blue. They can’t keep them away, and Carter seals the deal with a third goal for the Kings and the final whistle goes. 

Taylor’s silent while he’s taking off his gear and showering, the press asking him a few questions but even they leave him alone when he’s more unyielding than usual. 

Ebs has a -3 game and so do Nuge and Schultzy; that pairs with the loss that the locker room takes hard. Horcs says a few words but his heart isn’t in it, and they all leave Rexall subdued. 

Whits drives them back to their apartment, Taylor taking shotgun and Ebs slumping in the back, playing some stupid game on his phone. 

“You’re not usually this quiet,” Whits says as they pull into the garage and Ebs leaves the car first, Taylor moving a little slower than usual. Taylor shrugs and sits back, and then thinks twice. 

“You’ve been around a while ... played with all sorts of guys, right?” he says, and Whits looks confused.

“Uhm, yeah ... I guess you could say that,” he says slowly, and Taylor frowns and looks down at his lap.

“Listen, I don’t give a shit what you do with Jordan, alright? If I did, I wouldn’t have said yes to come live with you two idiots,” Whits continues, and Taylor flushes a deep red.

“No, that’s not — we’re not. That’s not what this is about … sort of,” Taylor fumbles, and Whits groans and thumps his head back against the seat.

“Seriously Hall, I am not the guy to be asking for ‘how to get your man’ tips or whatever. I know I did the whole You Can Play thing, and I’m totally ... ugh, I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” he moans, and Taylor punches his arm as hard as he can.

“You need to _stop fucking talking_! I’m not trying to come out to you or anything, Jesus! Mike Richards just said something to me tonight and it freaked me out, okay?” Taylor exclaims, and Whits falls silent.

“Well?” Whits asks, when Taylor doesn’t elaborate.

“He said the Kings are gonna buy Ebs, and I won’t be any good without him.”

Whits stares at him for a beat or two, before he starts laughing.

“ _Seriously_? Out of all the chirping you choose to listen to, you choose to tune into something Mike fucking Richards is yelling at you."

“Well?” Taylor exclaims, and Whits rolls his eyes.

“Well, _what_? Richards was obviously trying to push your buttons and he fucking succeeded, didn’t he? He freaked you out and got you all off-balance and shit.”

“But—”

“Eberle isn’t going fucking _anywhere_ , and neither are you. Why the hell would he know something that you don’t?”

“Because ... I don’t know! Their scouts might’ve asked what Ebs is like to play with, or what he thinks about him. There could be heaps of reasons!”

“You’re an idiot. Get out of my car,” Whits says and Taylor bails out, his bag banging against his side. He dumps his shit and changes into trackpants and an old t-shirt, worn from too many washes, and goes to Ebs’ room and knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Ebs says dully, and Taylor pokes his head inside.

“You wanna be alone?” he asks, and Ebs shakes his head. Taylor grabs his phone and goes inside, shutting the door behind him. 

The room is dark, bar the television, and he’s already shuffled over to make room for Taylor to climb into his bed. They don’t always do stuff like this, but sometimes — sometimes Taylor will need someone _near_ , or Ebs will, and this happens. It’s fine, though. Totally, totally fine.

“What a shitshow, eh?” Taylor sighs as he slides into the cool sheets, turning on his side. Ebs turns the TV off and flicks his bedlight on, and stretches out on his back, yawning. He scratches low on his stomach, his t-shirt rucking up to reveal pale skin and dark hair, and Taylor makes a pointed effort to pull his eyes back upward. _Concentrate_.

“Yeah, fucking Kings...” he mutters and Taylor moves a little closer, bending his knee so it presses against Ebs' thigh.

“Hey, uh...” Ebs begins just as Taylor’s eyes start drooping, and Taylor snuffles against the pillow. It smells like Ebs, which is nice.

“Yeah?” 

“What did ... I saw Richards say something to you. You looked kinda upset after?”

Taylor’s tired enough to want to tell the truth, so he does. “He said the Kings were gonna buy you, and everyone would know how shit I am.”

He can feel Ebs stiffen beside him, so he moves closer again and slings an arm out, so it falls across his chest.

“What the _fuck_?! Am I going to the Kings?” Ebs starts to panic, and that cements how full of shit Richards really is. He’ll have to board the guy a few times next time they play them as payback.

“No, you’re not going to the Kings. He was just chirping, talking shit.”

“Are ... are you _sure_?”

“Yes, Ebby, I’m sure. Besides, we’re a two-for-one deal. You go, I go.” He cracks open an eye and looks at Ebs, who’s staring at him. 

“You sound like you’re quoting The Notebook at me or something.”

Taylor huffs out a laugh.

“I’m not a bird, you non, and neither are you. But even if we get traded apart, we’ll end up together again. Our hockey fates are aligned or whatever bullshit Sam’s sister told us, remember? She did the tarot cards and everything. Really legit shit right there,” Taylor says, and Ebs pokes him in the side but settles back down.

“When we re-sign or get our contract extensions, whatever — we should ask for six years and no trade clauses,” Ebs says and Taylor nods, his arm still across Ebs, holding him still and secure.

“Sounds like a plan, bud.”

“I don’t want to play hockey if you’re not on my team,” Ebs goes on, and Taylor can’t help the smile, or the slow burn of warmth that spreads through him.

“Me either, Ebby.”

Ebs falls quiet after that, turning on his side and holding Taylor’s arm around his waist, moving back to awkwardly spoon with Taylor. Taylor falls asleep to Ebs sliding his fingers between Taylor’s, lacing them together as they rest on his stomach, a ridiculous smile on his face.

 

The next morning they wake up still in the same position, and Taylor’s packing epic morning wood but Ebs doesn’t say anything as they head to the kitchen for breakfast. Whits is in the living room watching the news, a bowl of colourful cereal in his hands, and he looks at them with a raised eyebrow as they both emerge from Ebs’ bedroom.

“So, am I calling my You Can Play buddies and telling them we’ve got another PSA to film?” Whits calls out as they walk past him to the kitchen. 

Taylor flips him the bird and Ebs mumbles something derogatory, but they share a small, sleepy smile as they move around each other to pour cereal and butter toast. They join him in the living room, flopping down onto the other couch, Taylor stretching his legs out and Ebs crossing his, his knee resting against Taylor’s thigh.

 

“You two seem very touchy this morning,” Whits says and Taylor shrugs, spooning Rice Krispies into his mouth.

“Don’t be jealous 'cos you don’t have someone hot waiting in bed every night,” he says around his next mouthful, and it’s worth the sharp elbow from Ebs for the look of pure horror on Whits’ face, as he starts yelling about “TOO MUCH FUCKING INFORMATION!” and all but runs from the room.

Taylor snorts and goes back to his cereal, Ebs shuffling to sit closer and Taylor changes it from the news to Nickelodeon, where Spongebob is starting. He’ll have to thank Whits later or something, maybe with a steak dinner — unless he acts like a total dick in practice today. Then he’s just gonna get a stick to his skates so he falls over. 

“Kings are shit anyway,” Ebs mumbles, brushing toast crumbs off his fingers onto his pants, and Taylor grunts in agreement. He’s stupid for even listening to Richards, and he knows that now. 

He just can’t wait to see the look on that guy’s face the next time they play, though. Him and Ebs are gonna bring the fucking heat.


End file.
